


Until We Meet Again

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Martin's leaving. He calls his oldest friend at the club to let him know. They get caught up in old memories and reminiscences and regrets. orLucas is dreaming when he gets the phone call. His oldest friend, the only teammate who's been here as long as he has, is leaving. He's officially the last of the old guard.





	

Lucas is dreaming. He’s on the pitch, and the fans are singing, singing, _singing_ , a sea of red singing his name, posters saying that he is loved, he is appreciated, that he will never walk alone…

Stevie is there, because Stevie is always there, and this is how Lucas knows this is a dream. Stevie is ahead of him, and he can hear Carra behind him, and Martin is there too, silent, but strong, and other red shirts, faces and numbers blurring together. Jordan is there, he thinks, and though he can’t entirely make everything out, he _knows_ Phil is there, would know him from the way he runs, the way he looks up at his teammate before making a brilliant pass.  

The fans aren’t singing anymore, or maybe they are—their mouths are moving, but he can’t hear the words. Instead, his ears are ringing, ringing, like a song he thinks he knows, but isn’t sure from where…

Lucas wakes to the sound of his phone ringing on the bedside table.

He rolls out of bed and ducks into the hallway, making his way to the living room. He turns on a lamp with a dark shade, so the light is dim. Still, he squints and looks away, his eyes wanting to close again in rest.

“ _Olá?_ ” His voice was rough with sleep.

“Lucas, hi. It’s Martin. I, I forgot the time difference. I shouldn’t have called.”

“What’s wrong, Skrts?”

There was a long silence. Lucas almost thought he heard a sniffling, but he dismissed it out of hand. This was Martin Skrtel, he thought fondly to himself, who ate nails for breakfast, who took down opponents and took the yellow card easily if it came.

“Martin? Talk to me, mate.”

There was a moment more of silence, and then Martin cleared his throat.

“I’m going.”

“Going where?”

“Turkey. Fenerbahçe.”

Lucas fell heavily into the nearest sofa.

“Istanbul,” he said, and the name held the awed weight of history, the taste of joy, and belief, an almost mythic miracle in an increasingly cynical time.

“Yes. Istanbul.” And Martin sounded desolate, as well he might after finding out that he was leaving home again. And Liverpool _was_ home now. How could it not be, when his kids spoke English like proper Scousers, when his son was heartbroken over having to leave his best friend Pedro Leiva behind? And Martin was heartbroken too, truth be told.

He had friends in the city too, after all. He still had friends in Slovakia, and now he had them in Denmark, in L.A., in different cities across England and Europe in general. And childhood friends were all well and good, but it had been Lucas who had reached him first when he had cried after that loss to Manchester City in the cup final. It had been Lucas who had called him last summer, a call very similar to this, letting him know that he might have to go, even though he didn’t want to. It was Lucas who invited him to every party, every barbecue, every night out with the boys. Hell, Lucas was the reason he could now swear in fluent Portuguese (and god, it was _so_ worth it to make Philippe Coutinho blush in two languages).

“I’m sorry to hear that, mate.” Lucas’ voice was sincere.

“Me too. But I’m not getting any younger. Klopp doesn’t rate me. I didn’t play enough this year, and I won’t play much more next year. I just, I just wanna play football, Lucas.” And Lucas understood. Of course he did. Liverpool was a fantastic club, but they had wanted to play football their whole lives, and they’d always known they’d only get a few years. Spending the last years of your career on the bench when you could be on the pitch was mad.

There were some, like their old friend Daniel Agger, who would rather go out on top, would rather stop playing altogether than stop playing at the highest level, but Lucas had never been one of those people, and neither had Martin. They would play until their legs fell off, until they physically _couldn’t_ anymore, until they were dragged from the pitch, kicking and screaming, and tossed into retirement, like old, scuffed footballs that had finally gone flat.

“I know, I know. You don’t have to justify yourself to me, Marts.”

“I still love this team. I still love this city. I don’t _want_ to go, but I _have_ to.”

“So you’re calling everyone up to say goodbye?”

“Not everyone. But you and I, we’ve played together a long time. We’ve seen things the other lads haven’t. I don’t want it to be hard for you, when I go.”

Lucas didn’t say anything. No heartfelt denial—they’d known each other long enough that Martin knew what his voice sounded like when he lied. It _would_ be hard, without Martin. He’d gotten to the age now where he was supposed to offer up advice and take care of the younger boys, and he enjoyed doing it, of course. He liked the young lads, liked how hanging out with them made him feel young again too for a few fleeting moments. But he would miss having a friend who’d seen him from almost the very beginning of his Liverpool career, a friend who could give him advice and support him, instead of the other way around.

“It will be. You know it will be. But I’ve got Jordan and the new boys—I’ll be fine.”

“Besides,” he added, in a voice that tried to be light and failed “to hear the papers, I may be out the door myself.”

“Don’t.” Martin’s voice was pained, “Don’t listen to the papers. Don’t go. Someone needs to stay.”

“I don’t want to go. You know I don’t want to. I’d stay forever if they’d have me. I just don’t know if Kloppo wants me, and I don’t want to force myself to stay where I’m not wanted.”

It was a reasonable argument—nobody wanted to linger too long, walking the halls only to see people rolling their eyes, only to hear the whispers and be driven half mad with the paranoia that they were about you.

The papers were cruel too. Look at how they skewered Mario Götze, who’d wanted nothing more than to stay in his new home, who’d tried to cling to the doorframe as they tried to drag him out.

Lucas hated summer.

“Promise me. Promise me you’ll stay.”

“I’ll do my best, Marts. I will. I promise.”

“Maybe I’ll come back some day,” Martin’s voice held a dreamy softness that Lucas had only heard a few times over the eight years he’d known the man, “come back to coach under Stevie, maybe, or to live, or just to watch a match, to see the boys lift a trophy.”

Lucas played along, generous as always.

“And the cameras will show you before the match, huddled in your fancy coat next to Stevie and Dagger, and the commentator will say ‘And there we have Martin Skrtel, sat between Captain Fantastic, Steven Gerrard himself, and Daniel Agger, the Great Dane. Great servant to the club, wouldn’t you agree, Macca?’ ‘Absolutely, Ian, he gave that club everything for eight years, couldn’t ask for a more faithful player. Went to Fenerbahçe after Klopp’s first season, but Once a Red, Always a Red, ya know.’”

“And then the boys will lift the trophy, just like we did after the Carling Cup, and we’ll be on our feet, the three of us, screaming our heads off, just like the rest of the stadium, but different, because we’ll know what it means to them.”

“Any regrets, Marts?”

“Just the one, Luke. For Stevie.” He didn’t even have to spell it out. Lucas knew he was referring to the 2013/14 season.

“For Stevie,” Lucas agreed, voice quiet and sad, “but other than that, it’s been a pretty good run, mate.”

“Yeah.” There was no way to end this. How could you say goodbye to a friendship like this, to eight years of laughter and tears and joy and pain? Maybe there was no way.

“Guess I’ll have to start watching the Turkish league now,” Lucas said, heaving a faux heavy sigh.

There was a quiet, wet chuckle.

“Any idea who I should be supporting?” He continued, trying to get a laugh out of his old friend.

Martin cleared his throat, swallowed hard once, twice. His voice was watery when he spoke.

“I hear, uh, Fenerbahçe isn’t too bad. Just signed a new defender, too, some old guy from the Prem.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard that. They were lucky to get him, you know. Great experience, great defender,” Lucas’ voice got quiet, serious, “Great man, great friend. He’ll do well there, I hope.”

“Thank you, Luke. For taking my call. For being my friend, for all these years, through all these managers and all the players we played with. Even after Carra and Stevie left, you and me, we stuck around, eh?”

“Yeah, I guess we did.”

There was no still good way to end the conversation, and maybe that was because neither of them _wanted_ it to end, really.

And so they spent the next hour and a half reminiscing, going over old memories, tough matches, and dressing room jokes, and that time Sterling had called Brendan dad by mistake. They laughed and sighed and wished some things had changed, and would have given anything to keep some things the same.

Ariana found Lucas in the morning, conked out on the couch. There was a lamp on, even though sunlight streamed through the windows. He was holding his phone in his right arm, which dangled off the edge of the couch. His face was pushed into the couch cushion. He looked… sad.

She woke him, gently, with the patience and love of years of marriage.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

A shadow passed over his eyes, as he offered up a weary smile.

“It will be, I think.”


End file.
